


all that glitters, all that's gold

by petragem



Category: Rookie Blue
Genre: Cutting Edge AU, F/M, plus minor sidebar shades of Andy/Nick because I am who I am
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-27
Updated: 2017-07-27
Packaged: 2018-12-07 21:12:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11632023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petragem/pseuds/petragem
Summary: CUTTING EDGE AU. Sam's a figure skater, Andy's a hockey player,I didn't ask to train a rookie I didn't ask to have a partner, etc.





	all that glitters, all that's gold

**Author's Note:**

> I found this in my drafts and screamed out loud four times while rereading it because YIKES. Several lines + all the plot stolen shamelessly from the source material.

Three years ago: Andy McNally was a lock for the Canadian National Hockey Team. One bad hit, three semi-successful surgeries, and 4% less peripheral vision in her right eye: she is. Well. Now she is not.

She sits across from a coach she just met, a coach who has apparently flown across the country just to meet her. The only coach that's interested.

“Andy, I know this isn’t what you want, but. It’s the end of the line. No one else is going to come knocking at your door. Not with an offer to spend your days on the ice, at least.” Shifts in his seat, smiles sideways at her. “Just give it a shot, yeah? What do you have to lose?”

(Her dignity, her hopes, her soul.) 

She nods, once, hard. Packs her hockey bag--skates, tape, some sweats. Old, lucky shirts. Her stick, just because. It’s been years and years since she traveled anywhere without it. Follows the man, the coach, the coach who is not a hockey coach, winding through the city and the airport terminal and hoards of other hopeful passengers, towards a maybe new life, towards a maybe last chance.

Settles into her seat, finally, looks out the tiny oval window at her city, at the bustle of the tarmac. Breathes. Shaw drops heavily into the seat next to her. Pats her arm.

“It’ll be fine, you’ll see. You and Sam, you’ll be good for each other.”

Andy forces a smile. Puts her headphones on. Dreams.

\---

It comes back to her in a rush, the second she walks back into a rink. The thrill, the brisk winter air, the sound of skates slicing through the ice. Badly, she realizes; badly is how much she wants this. 

“There’s a pair of skates that should fit you,” Oliver says, nudging Andy towards a makeshift bench next to center ice. The fanciest makeshift bench she’s ever seen, in fact: a couple of easy chairs, blankets, a small coffeemaker, plugged into an orange cord snaking its way along the rubbery walkway. 

She laces up the weird, unfamiliar boots. She’s been on figure skates before, sure, but years ago, ages. An entire career’s worth of time. The toepick is a vague, faraway memory.

“Hey Sammy,” Shaw calls to the guy sit-spinning with a fury at the opposite end of the rink. “Come meet your new partner.”

Sammy pulls out of his spin, sneers in their direction, stalks his way over. “No way, Ollie. This is not happening. It’ll never work.”

“Sam, Sammy. Give it a shot, c’mon. She flew all this way. Let’s have a tryout.”

“A tryout, are you kidding me? She’s a hockey player!”

“She’s a skater. A damn fine skater, in fact. The rest of it, she’ll learn. You, me--we’ll teach her.”

“I did not ask to train a rookie. I did not ask to have a partner.”

“Well, Sammy. You are and you need one, so. Andy McNally, this is Sam Swarek. Sam, Andy.”

Sam pivots towards her, puts on a fake, incredulous smile. “Nice to meet you. Sorry to waste your time. But sweetheart, you’re not my type.”

Andy fights back an eyeroll, because seriously, this guy. Nice to know he lives up to his douchebag reputation. “Yeah well. We’ll see about that.”

Steps out onto the ice. And it’s never going to work. She’s nearly as tall as him, which given even her limited knowledge of the figure staking world, she suspects is a bad thing. He’s got to like, lift her and throw her. That’s never happening. On top of which, he’s basically radiating disdain for her. She’s used to getting shade thrown from male hockey players, all the guys she played with as a kid and in high school, all the guys she played with until she went to a college with a girl’s program, all the guys who’d take one look at her and write her off, infinitely displeased to be sharing the ice with a girl until they saw what she could do. But a male figure skater? Please.

Puts her hand in his, tries not to show her surprise when he closes his around hers, firm and strong. His other hand grips the curve of her hip. His breath puffs warm and white in the space near her left ear.

“So, McNally. Let’s skate.” He says it like a dare, like a growl, nearly. Out of the corner of her eye she sees dark dark eyes, angry scrawls of lashes, and she skates. 

And it’s fine, it’s amazing even, it’s like a memory she thought she’d forgotten, she loves it. Until, until she trips over the toepick and ends up sprawled across the ice.

“And, there it is,” Sam snots. “Hey Ollie? The tryout is over. She’s done.” Looks down at her, gives her a backwards glance as he stalks off the ice.

Andy gets to her feet, shakily. Glides over to where Oliver’s standing, rinkside. Heads to the showers, fighting back tears. Tugs off her strange new skates, her shirt, sweatpants. Turns the water as hot as it’ll go, steps under the steady stream, stands there for as long as she can take it. 

Figures at least she must’ve set some sort of record for shortest failed figure skating career. If she can’t have a gold medal, if she can’t have ice hockey, if she can’t have her full peripheral vision (it was such a cheap shot, her career over because of a stupidly cheap shot), at least she has that.

\---

Oliver’s standing at the entrance of the locker room when she walks out, waiting. Shuffles his feet around, smiles a sad, defeated smile.

“There’s a car waiting outside. It’ll take you back to the airport, or wherever you want to go, really. If you want to spend some time in town before heading home. And this, well. This is for your time.”

Andy glances down at the check he places in her hands. There are a lot of zeros. 

She frowns. Says: “Double or nothing.” 

It’s not the money, not really, that makes her say it. It’s the smell, the taste of the ice, that magnetic pull that’s always been there, the competitive urge to win, to not give up, to not admit defeat. She knows that it will eat at her forever and ever if she doesn’t stay, doesn’t try.

Oliver raises his eyebrows, cocks his head, smiles. True and delighted. “You’re Andy McNally, you don’t give up, huh?”

Andy shrugs. “Something like that, yeah.”

He claps her on the back, pulls her in for half a hug. “That’s what I hoped you’d say. C’mon, let’s go tell Sam he’s got a new partner.”

\---

Sam reacts predictably. 

Andy finds she doesn’t much care.

\---

Every day is the same. Wake up. Run. Eat. Skate. Bicker. Skate. Stretch. Eat. Bicker. Weights. Eat. Ice. Sleep. Repeat.

Andy hurts everywhere, and feels better than she’s ever felt. 

Sam is unbearable, and also not.

Eleven months until Ottawa, until Nationals. Then ten, then nine. 

Andy falls on her face, her ass, her sides. Learns how to spin, how to jump, how to glide.

She’s getting-- _they’re_ getting--pretty goddamn good.

So what if they can’t stand each other.

\---

“Don’t you ever sit still?” Sam asks one day, tucked into one of the rinkside armchairs, blanket pulled tight across his lap, book in hand. He looks like an old man, glasses tipped halfway down his nose. 

Andy continues tap-tapping a puck on the lip of her hockey stick. The zamboni slides back and forth across the ice. 

“No,” she shoots back. “Don’t you ever do anything besides train and read?”

“Hey, this? This is a classic. You should try it sometime.”

“Moby Dick? Uh, no thanks.”

“Something else, then. It’ll give you something to do other than bang that club around.”

“Club?” she laughs. “Man, would I love to see you play hockey.”

Sam shuts his book, tilts his head, challenging: “Any day, sweetheart. Any day.”

\---

So. They play. Andy waves the zamboni off the ice ( _see ya later, Ernie_ , gets a cheeky grin in return), sets out a couple empty gatorade bottles for the goal.

Sam isn’t bad, suprisingly. Andy skates circles around him, obviously, pokes the puck between his legs and between the posts not even barely trying, but still. She was expecting him to collapse once he had a stick in hand, how weirdly old fashioned he is, how figure-skatey his pants always are, how he cares not at all about any sports besides (well, including) figure skating. But he at least knows how to hold the stick, handle the puck. Which makes sense, she guesses. Being Canadian and all. 

Andy runs the score to 4-0 when Sam snaps, winds up for a slapshot. Which really, would’ve been a good shot, if it was pointed anywhere besides her face.

It’s not a big deal, obviously; Andy’s taken a lot worse hits in her day. Still, given the amount of blood that gushes onto the ice, she relents and agrees to a hospital visit. 

Sam is like, weirdly anxious about it, which would be cute if it weren’t so annoying. She’s a hockey player (was a hockey player), for christ’s sake. It’s not like he broke her in two. He guides her to his truck, one hand steady on her back, the other wrapped loosely around her forearm. Reaches out and touches her, her hand, her arm, her leg, at every stop sign, traffic light on the drive to the ER, checking in. It’s weird, the off-the-ice contact. Andy...does not hate it.

There’s a tension in him that worries her a little bit, after the third hour in the waiting room, the fifth _not a domestic assault victim, I promise_ look she sends to her fellow ER patients, the tenth time he asks if she’s alright. And she’s fine, she’s totally fine, which is why she almost feels bad about when, after she gets checked out, x-rayed, stitched up, his eyes crease when she bounds back out with her entire head wrapped in fake gauze.

He turns on his heel, doesn’t talk to her the whole ride home other than a gruff _better not be late to training tomorrow morning._

(She isn’t. Wakes up early, beats him there by five minutes. Sam grunts, barely looks at her, the bruises blooming purple peeking out the sides of her bandage.)

\---

Eight months to Nationals, then seven, six.

Andy perfects her axels, salchows. Does doubles, tries triples. Learns lifts. 

Sam somehow manages to not drop her on her head.

They train, and train, and train.

\---

Five months. Four.

They pick out (fight over) music, costumes, their routines. 

\---

Three months. Two.

It, they, everything--it all comes together, and they’re good. They’re super fucking good. Andy lets herself hope they have a chance. 

\---

December. Christmas, almost. Andy bangs on his door, hears Sam call and pushes on through. And okay--he is, well. He is pretty naked, there, aside from, like. Half a towel. “Jesus, Sam. Put on some clothes.”

“McNally. Don’t you knock?” Sam pulls the towel tighter, scrubs a hand through his wet hair.

“Sorry, I just--I wanted to give you this, before I leave,” she says, shoving a hastily wrapped lump in his direction. “So, here.”

Sam takes it, carefully, surprised. Handles it like it’s something precious. “Andy you didn’t have to--” 

“Ugh yeah I know, whatever. Just open it.”

He tears the paper, gently, and before he can even see it, really, Andy cuts in: “It’s a hockey sweater. I know you like, don’t actually like hockey, but you’re from Toronto and it’s from Toronto and god Sam, it’s such a classic, and I figured with your shot and all that--”

“McNally.” Sam shoots her a grateful, private grin. “It’s great. And look,” he says, pulling it over his head. “I needed a shirt, so. It’s perfect. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Okay, well. I’ll see you--”

“Wait, McNally.” He turns, goes over to the dresser, one hand holding his towel secure. Comes back with a green and red wrapped package, ribbon and all. “Here. Ah, Merry Christmas.”

Andy takes it, delighted. “Seriously Sam? That’s--thank you.” Tears off the paper, reads: “Moby Dick.”

“I just thought--”

“Sam, no. It’s awesome. Thank you.”

He looks down, embarrassed. “Have a safe trip home, yeah?”

Andy lugs the book on her flight home, even though it doesn’t fit in her already-stuffed carry on. Falls asleep on the plane with it spread open on her lap, tracing the raised raised letters on the cover with her fingertips.

\---

“Do you always have a big New Year’s party?” she asks, two weeks later, Sam’s house filled to the brim with guests she’s never met. She snuck into his office, to escape just a minute. There’s photos scattered across one of the walls, old photos. Toddler Sam on skates, preteen Sam on a podium, an arm draped across his partners back. The girl’s pretty; has dark eyes. Long, thick hair.

“I--yeah. A family tradition I never seemed to break.” 

“Oh, your family’s here?” Her whole body perks. “Can I meet them?”

“No, they’re not here. My parents--” He looks down. “It’s just Sarah and I now. She lives out in St. Catherine’s with her family. She doesn’t usually come back for these. Doesn’t like crowds.”

“You should have smaller parties, then.” She fiddles with her shoe. Heels are _hard_. “Did you see her for Christmas, I hope?”

“Yeah. Drove out there for the day. Saw the kids, did the gift thing.” He shifts on his feet. “You’ve got--come here. Your dress, it’s--”

“What’s wrong with my dress?” Andy looks down, checks for stains, tears, overly noticeable cleavage. Spins around in a circle, trying to see the back.

“McNally, just. Stand still, okay?” He steps closer, brushes her hair of her neck. Tugs up the zipper on her dress the final inch.

“Oh.” She swallows. “Um, thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” He doesn’t back away. “Let’s get back out there, yeah?”

Andy breaks first, blazes past him with a big bright smile. Mingles, meets Sam’s girlfriend (Marlo, all intense eyes and nervous hands), chats up the young eligible men in attendance, of which there are a surprising number. Drinks champagne. Takes a lighted sparkler as the clock counts down to midnight. Paints a picture in the air with the sizzling light, gone before it’s even done. Kisses strangers at midnight. 

Kisses Sam. 

(It’s nothing, of course; it’s nothing. Marlo’s halfway across the room, literally everyone is kissing, on top of which she’s spent the better part of the last month with his hands in inappropriate places--they’ve been like, perfecting their lifts--and there wasn’t even tongue, for fuck’s sake, just the press of his lips, a thumb skimming along her jawline, hand at her waist. The heat of him bleeding into her.

Andy just won’t look directly at his mouth from now on. It’s totally fine.)

\---

Three days to Nationals. Two days. One.

\---

It’s a mindfuck to be back on the ice again, lights and cameras and reporters shouting her name, to be back in competition mode. A different kind of competition, granted, than Andy’s used to. The routine, the rhythm, the gut-jangling nerves leading up to a hockey tournament, that--that’s familiar. That’s easy. _That_ , Andy understands. 

The locker room, the glitter and sparkles and hairspray; the threat of sequins; the men in tight pants; hoards of press, clamoring for a quote or photo or more; the ease with which Sam navigates her through it all, hand tight over hers, guiding her out to a free patch of ice in the middle of their only, blessedly only practice skate--it is not so familiar. He skims a hand up her side, fingers burning warm into the curve of her hip. Slight pull back, and they settle into a smooth slide, crossovers, weaving through the other pairs, and starts up a running commentary:

“Epstein and Price, they medaled at juniors last year. He’s always a half-beat behind.”

(One-eighty degree turn at the far corner, and they’re pressing forward.)

“Best and Williams. Just back on the circuit; she had a baby a few months ago, they’re still a little rusty.”

(Footwork pass, in between a couple that’s shooting daggers at them.)

“Rosati and Boyd. It’s a long story.”

(Double spins, just easy, loose. Sam pulls out of it as a flash of blonde disappears behind them.)

“Peck.”

“Swarek. Always knew you’d find a new partner. Her technique needs work.” She pats Sam’s cheek, shoots them a truly shit-eating grin, and zooms away.

Andy digs her toepick deep. Lets the blood rush out of her head; spins always make her lightheaded. More aware that her vision is compromised. “So that’s your _old_ partner, I take it?”

Sam nods. “Yeah, that’s, ah.” His eyes crinkle; there’s a faint layer of exhaustion that Andy hadn’t noticed until now but probably should have. They’ve been training fourteen-hour days. “That’s Gail Peck. And her new partner. Collins, I think.”

“She’s a real charmer. But her partner’s cute, at least. Girl’s got good taste.” Just like that, exhaustion yields to annoyance, which at least Andy can work with. That, she’s accustomed to.

“Something like that.” He frowns, and it’s the set of his jaw, the tense of his shoulders, the lines at his eyes that tell Andy the conversation is over. He presses a hand into the small of her back, perfunctory, and they skate, run through their first routine at half-speed, half-jumps, half-intensity. 

An official blows a whistle and they file off the ice, the flash and click of cameras in a haze to the left and right and everywhere. Andy smiles, stays close to Sam, and breathes a heavy, nervous breath, finally alone in the warmth of the locker room. 

(Peck’s partner _is_ cute, though. She wasn’t just saying that to fuck with Sam. He’s taller than most of the guys on the ice, and looks leagues more comfortable. Has an army-dude vibe and looks unflappable, moving easily and precisely.

Sam’s nervous, she knows, though he’d never admit it. She felt it: the catch of his breath, the flicker of his pulse in the vein at his wrist, the way he crowded into her space anytime someone moved towards them.)

\---

And still seems nervous, an entire day later, wedged in the back of a car with Ollie in between the pair of them. 

“You two are ready,” Oliver says, patting both of their knees. Reassuring. “You’re ready, and more than than, you’re good together.”

Sam grunts. 

“You alright there, Sammy?”

“Fine.” He glares sideways at Shaw. “You want to worry about someone, worry about ramjet the rookie here.”

Andy snorts, and it’s good that Ollie’s sitting between them, honestly it is, it is the only thing preventing her from sending a swift elbow to his ribs. She was solid at their run-through that morning; she knows she was solid. “I’m fine.”

\---

And she _is_ , she is totally fine, except for the part where she one-hundred percent forgot about the mad rush of adrenaline she gets before competitions. Heart beating wild, smells and sounds and colors made sharper, more dangerous. She can’t keep herself still, is bouncing from foot to foot (skate to skate), her costume pinching uncomfortable at her thighs and throat. 

“McNally, what’s going on?” Sam asks, approaching, buttoned up and ready to go. There’s an edge of irritation, like he can’t quite believe it, like he is astounded that his cocksure rookie is suddenly dealing with a case of the massive jitters.

“I’m nervous, Sam, obviously.” She looks at him, direct, pushes her bangs out her eyes. “Well. Not _nervous_ , obviously, I mean it’s me, but. Like I get nerves. Before big matches. Well, before big skates, now, I guess.”

Sam’s mouth falls open, and he takes a step closer, eyes wide, incredulous. “You get _nerves_ before big skates? And you’re just telling me this now? Andy, christ--we go on in three minutes!”

“I know, it just--it goes away. I swear, I just need to get settled out there, and it’ll go away.”

“How long does it take to get settled?” he asks, low, dangerous. One of those mean, angry smiles.

“Oh, I don’t know--ten, fifteen minutes, maybe. After I check a few people, take a few hits. One time I vomited into my helmet and then I was fine. But yeah, generally within fifteen.”

“Well. You’re aware that our program is significantly less than that, right?”

“Yep.” She exhales through her nose. “What do you do, to calm down, to get ready, or do you not need to do anything. You’re a machine, right, no feelings, no emotions, aside from that snit you were in in the car, earlier.”

“I’m not a machine. And I--well. I don’t do anything in particular. Trust myself, trust my partner. That’s it.”

“That’s it, huh?”

“Yeah. Well. Before my last skate at Alberta four years ago, I took a hit. Got chased down, tackled by some overeager hockey player.”

Andy huffs out a shaky laugh. “Yeah well. Probably you had it coming. And there’s still time for that, you know. Got that long ten meter walk out to center ice. Never know what could happen. I hear your new partner has trouble with her toe pick, is a little clumsy.”

Sam smiles, a real smile this time. “Nah, not what I heard.”

Their names blare out, echo of the loud system filling each corner of the arena. 

Sam watches her, careful. “Ready?” he asks.

Andy tips up her chin, straightens her shoulders. Reaches down and slides off her skate guards. 

“Ready,” she answers.

They skate.

It isn’t perfect, it isn’t them at their best, that feeling of flying across the ice just the two of them, but it’s enough to put them in third. Enough to give them a shot tomorrow, enough to give them a shot for the Olympics.

Andy jumps Sam, practically, when they get their scores, throws herself at him in the kiss-and-cry, all her earlier nervous energy dissipated into something lighter, a thrilling sort of glee.

He catches her under her thighs, groans a bit when her blade glances into the back of his leg. Sets her down, carefully, and watches, half-irritated, as she plants a sloppy kiss on Oliver’s cheek.

That post-skate excitement, that spark, carries Andy through interview after interview, through locker room nonsense drama (Peck’s icy stares and Rosati raising hell, curses and locker-kicking, Nash, the Skate Fed rep, soothing egos, the sole even keel voice in the room), through the car ride back to the hotel with Sam sulking like they didn’t just turn in a solidly decent skate. 

“Are you nervous?” she asks, following the angry set of his shoulders through the lobby, up the elevator, down the hallway. “God, I’m so nervous. For tomorrow, I mean. Now, now I’m like pumped. Adrenaline, you know? I wish we could just do both programs today. That’d be so much better, seriously. One then the other. Like foreplay, you know?”

Sam stops in front of a door. His door. “Foreplay?” he repeats. A muscle tenses along his jaw; Andy stares at it, then forces her eyes higher. 

“Yeah, totally. _Foreplay_. Wouldn’t you rather get right to it?”

Sam blinks. Looks at her like he doesn’t understand a single word she’s ever said or ever will say. “Sleep, Andy. I want to sleep.”

(Ugh. So, they sleep. Or rather, Andy barrels into her empty impersonal hotel room, heat blaring too loudly and city-glow from the windows blaring in too brightly. She flops onto the bed, clicks her way through all the channels three times, sighs. Brushes her teeth. Throws her hair into a messy bun. Climbs back into bed and sleeps, or tries to.)

Sam’s wound even tighter the next day. Free skate day. He skips breakfast, shows up not a minute early to their pre-run-through meeting with Oliver. Doesn’t look her in the eye. Andy snorts, she doesn’t care, she is _loose_ today, feeling weirdly good and strong and confident and she will wear him down, make it so he enjoys their skate today like he’s never enjoyed anything in his life. Makes it her goal.

Oliver grins, gives her a reassuring pat on the shoulder. Sam scowls through their run-through, scowls through the long long wait until showtime, through on and off ice warmups.

Thirty minutes to skate. Ten minutes. Five.

They fucking nail it.

Sam’s beaming before they even hit their final mark, they take their bows and the crowd is roaring and Andy’s so proud she’s nearly bursting out of her skin. 

“Nothing to be nervous about this time,” Sam says into her ear, skating slow towards Ollie’s overjoyed face and waving to their rowdy, cheering admirers.

“Wasn’t nervous,” Andy replies, confidently. And she wasn’t, this time or last. “You were here.”

Slides on her skate guards, shakes off his heavy gaze. Sits down and waits for the scores, too close to him--he sat down too close, warm warm next to her and his arm around her back and then the scores come, and--

“This is bullshit,” she yells, stalking back down to the lockers, blowing by the cameras lined up for interviews, the judge-booing crowd shouting their support and disgust of the too low scores. “This is such fucking bullshit--those scores, they’re not right. We’re better than those scores, this ridiculously subjective system.”

“Andy, you’ve got to calm down,” Sam says, following her, stepping close. “You’ve got to lower your voice.

“I’m not going to lower my voice,” she answers, hotly. “This is a _sham_ , third fucking place, effectively, once Price/Epstein finishes. Out of contention. That component score was absurd, and technical--they downgraded us. They must have. We hit everything, everything, and we’re out of contention, and I can’t--”

“Andy,” Sam says, eyes flicking to the television screen above her head.

She huffs. “What.” Turns around.

Sees Price and Epstein sprawled across the ice, her skate blade tangled in his suspenders. Turns to Sam, eyes wide. 

“Second,” she breathes. “Second place.” 

Throws herself at him, arms around his neck and legs swinging carelessly and the force sends them spinning. Glances a kiss off his cheekbone and laughs, delighted: “We’re going to _Sochi_ \--parlez-vous Olympics!” 

\---

“We should celebrate,” she says, too loud, door to the press room swinging shut behind them. Question after question of how they skated and if they’re ready and what they feel. Andy tried very consciously not to look too gleeful about the questions about Chloe and Dov choking. She thinks it works.

“What do you have in mind?” he asks. Easy, open. Like he’d do anything she asks.

Andy pauses in front of the ladies’ locker room. “Drinks. Bar, club, whatever. Get you in some skinny jeans, hair gel.”

“Skinny jeans, huh.” He squints at her. “Can’t wait to see where this is going.”

“Nice flannel shirt, too, maybe.”

“Pushing your luck, McNally.”

\---

She isn’t though, and he knows she isn’t. Two hours later he’s dressed and sitting across from her at the hotel bar, in not-quite skinny jeans and a gray henley that looks stupidly, ferociously soft. 

“Okay,” Andy says, focusing on the task at hand. “Tequila.”

So, they do a shot. Then another. Then Andy drags Sam out to the dance floor by his sticky wrist, throws her arms around his shoulders, loose. Starts dancing.

Sam stares at her.

"C'mon, Mr. tough guy," she yells into his ear. Show me your second place moves."

Sam rolls his eyes at her but starts to sway, just a little. Andy cheers, and spins around in his arms.

Ten songs, two shots, and five denied requests to dip her later, Sam's moving a little easier and is actually smiling, Andy's pretty sure, through the blur of the beat and the crowd and Sam's hands at her hips. She feels like she could dance like this forever, which is probably clue #1 it's time to get home, if Andy's being honest with herself, so she nudges Sam towards the exit.

"Don't wanna go home yet, McNally," Sam shouts into her ear, trailing behind her, so there's clue #2. Her hair sticks sweatily to the back of her neck.

“Got to, have to skate in the morning. Gotta be the best, in a few weeks.”

“Not second best.”

“Nope,” Andy agrees, easy. “I look better in gold than in silver.”

They stop in front of Sam’s hotel room door. It takes him two tries to pull his key card out of his back pocket. Andy thinks, _he has a girlfriend_ , Andy thinks, _we are partners_ , Andy thinks: she thinks about kissing him. Andy thinks: she’s had too much to drink.

“Night, McNally,” Sam says, quiet.

Andy steps closer, and then steps back. Looks at his mouth, looks at the floor, looks at the elevator, off in the distance.

“Night, Swarek.” Turns, and breathes. Finds her way to her room.


End file.
